


Lunar Investigations

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7195754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan Prouvaire disappears during one of his midnight jaunts, and Bahorel must resort to extreme measures to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lunar Investigations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



Jehan Prouvaire was tramping through his favorite field under a moonlit sky when he finally saw Hecate for the first time.

He blinked, at first, wondering if he’d fallen asleep on his feet. He knew he wasn’t drunk. He had no need of stimulants at midnight, when the world was silent and he could feel its pulse in his bones, the thrum of all the lives too wild and shy for day.

But no, it was Hecate herself, lady of the moon and ghosts and all things tenebrous. It had to be. The dark beauty of her face, her pearlescent mane, the four growling hounds at her heels—all of it announced that Jehan Prouvaire looked upon a goddess.

He smiled, and his teeth shone in the moonlight.

***

Bahorel stormed into the Corinthe, holding an issue of Le Figaro aloft. “Has anyone seen Prouvaire today?”

Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire looked at him blankly. “Why, no,” Bossuet finally said. “Joly and I last saw him several days ago. Is something wrong?”

“ _Everything_ is wrong, and chief among the wrong things is that I can’t find Jehan. He’s not at the café Dionysos, or at his apartment, or in any park I’ve checked, or anywhere I can usually find him, and I _must_ speak with him.” He waved Le Figaro again, as if in illustration: who else but Jehan Prouvaire could properly sympathize with him about such philistines?

Joly frowned. “When we saw him, he said something about planning to go out for a walk in some field outside the city at midnight. One of his strange little jaunts, you know—and all by himself. I do hope he hasn’t caught a cold. It rained a little last night, and the night before.”

Bahorel chuckled. Leave it to Joly: out of all things that might befall a man alone at night on the outskirts of Paris, what Joly most feared was a _cold._ “If he were laid up with a cold, the likeliest place he’d be is his apartment, isn’t it?”

“Or at Joly’s, getting mothered,” said Grantaire. “Our very own Aesculapius would be the best person to run to for an illness, and Prouvaire has his moments of good sense.” His eyes were fond, though his tone was mocking. “Unless he’s been clever enough to parlay his illness into gaining a woman’s sympathy, even better than Joly’s. In which case, Prouvaire might be with her.”

Bahorel threw a glance at Gibelotte, whom he happened to know had received some of Jehan’s poems recently, but Gibelotte shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since Monday,” she said. It was Sunday now.

Bahorel had already visited the other two women whom Jehan had recently made eyes at, as well as some of their mutual artistic friends. “Never mind, I’ll track him down,” he said. “Perhaps Enjolras or Combeferre have seen him.”

***

“Courfeyrac and I last saw him Monday evening,” said Enjolras, removing his apron and hanging it neatly on a hook. Bahorel had caught him just as he was leaving the print shop for dinner with Courfeyrac and Feuilly. “He had written a poem, a very fine one—”

Bahorel didn’t trouble to conceal his snort: he had no doubt Jehan’s poem was fine, because it was Jehan’s. But Enjolras opining on the merits of any poetry would never cease to amuse.

“—comparing the suppression of the press to Tereus tearing out Philomela’s tongue to prevent her from denouncing him for rape.” 

“A most vivid metaphor, and an apt one,” said Bahorel, pleased.

Enjolras nodded. “He brought the poem here for me to print in our new pamphlet.”

“Did he say where he was going next?”

Courfeyrac gave an eloquent shrug. “You know Prouvaire. He said something about moonlight, and stars, and flowers, which was no doubt a complete explanation as far as he was concerned, but did not give us any precise information. I believe he intended to go for a walk. I told him not to stay out too late—he’s worse than Marius—but surely you don’t think he came to any harm?”

Bahorel frowned. “I hadn’t feared it at first,” he said. “You know how he disappears—but now that nobody at all seems to have seen him for the last several days…”

Feuilly, looking worried, said, “He mentioned he was going in a southerly direction. If that helps you at all.”

“Southerly—” They had been walking, but now Bahorel came to a sharp standstill, remembering a small field Jehan had mentioned once, remembering what precisely Jehan had said of it. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Feuilly turned an expectant gaze on him, as did Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but they could not help, not with this. But perhaps…

“Do you know where Combeferre is?” It would seem like an abrupt change of topic to them, Bahorel knew, but it wasn’t in the slightest.

Enjolras took it in stride, bless him. “In his rooms. There was something about Egyptian hieroglyphs he was studying—a question of alternative translations.”

“Very well. I must find him.” Without further farewell, Bahorel turned on his heel, and dashed away.

***

Combeferre, immersed in candlelit contemplation, took a moment to realize someone seemed to be assailing his door with a battering ram.

“Good evening, Bahorel,” he called out as he walked over to open the door.

The crack in the opening revealed a frantic Bahorel, confirming by sight what Combeferre had already deduced by reason. “Come in,” said Combeferre, stepping back. He needn’t have bothered saying it, as Bahorel was charging in anyway. But one had to cling to the trappings of civilization, if only to defy Bahorel. “Have a seat. May I offer you something to drink?”

“When did you last see Jehan Prouvaire?” Bahorel demanded, ignoring Combeferre’s sardonic courtesies.

Combeferre frowned. “Sunday…or was it Monday? One of those days, anyway.”

“Hmmm. Nobody’s seen him since.” Bahorel paced in a circle—a difficult task, given the amount of clutter obstructing his way, but he managed it—and then said, “What do you know about werewolves?”

“…do you believe Prouvaire has been eaten by a werewolf?”

“No,” Bahorel said, annoyed. “I can’t explain it and you’d scoff at me if I tried. Suffice it to say that I think he’s perfectly safe for now. But what do you know about werewolves? The stories I’ve heard say they can change at will, retain their minds in wolf form, and are magically and physically powerful.”

“I have heard those stories,” said Combeferre, “though I’ve heard other variants—”

“And have you heard about how one might _become_ a werewolf?”

“Being bitten seems to be the usual way, though there are stories of spells…”

“Yes,” said Bahorel, seizing upon this. “Spells. Do you know how to do any?”

Combeferre snorted. “Really, Bahorel.”

“Come now. You affirm nothing, deny nothing—how can you deny this out of hand? Unless you’ve tried the spells yourself?”

“No,” Combeferre said, smiling.

“So I ask you again. Do you know any stories which say how these spells might be performed? I’ve heard one or two stories about such spells myself, but didn’t inquired too closely regarding how to perform the spells. That’s just the sort of thing you _would_ ask about, even if you didn’t believe in it.”

Combeferre shook his head, still disbelieving. “There are many accounts, often contradictory. The key factor seems to be intent—”

“Aha!” Bahorel clapped his hands together in triumph. “Yes, of course, why didn’t I think of that? Why did I require _you_ of all people to tell me it’s the heart that matters most, and not following the proper steps?”

“When have I ever denied the importance of the heart?” Combeferre demanded, indignant and somewhat hurt.

Bahorel laughed and, in semi-apology, pulled Combeferre into a strong-armed embrace. “Never, never—but don’t be angry at me now! I’m off to find Jehan Prouvaire!”

The door banged behind him, rattling the walls, and three books fell off Combeferre’s shelf. Combeferre sighed.

***

Bahorel stood in the middle of the field he believed Jehan had visited on Monday night. The full moon’s glow was eerily bright. It almost felt like it wasn’t night at all.

He thought of wolves, of their teeth and their muscle and their savagery, and then bellowed at the moon, in the deepest voice he could muster, “Make me a werewolf!”

There was no echo to his words. They died as soon as he spoke them. But he had no time to wonder, let alone to worry. Maybe it was the purity of his intent, or the wolfish streak in his nature; maybe it was the fullness of the moon, or maybe it was the fact that this place crackled with magic. Maybe it was all of those things, or none of them. Whatever the reason, Bahorel felt like he was being torn limb from limb. He would have screamed in pain, but his throat became a shifting, unstable thing, and his voice failed him. But then--he felt the fur blossoming on his skin, the new muscles rippling underneath, the sharp fangs in his mouth. He tilted back his head and howled in gratitude.

And then suddenly, right before him, were two hounds of Hecate.

Several yards behind them was the goddess herself—black skin, luminous hair, fierce visage—seated on a bone-white chair. On another chair beside her was Jehan Prouvaire, an open notebook in his hand. Bahorel, with his sharp wolf’s hearing, could hear Jehan reading a poem from his notebook. On the other side of Hecate and Jehan were two other hounds, prowling their perimeter.

None of these had been there before—or else they had, but Bahorel couldn’t see them in human form. That was one advantage he had hoped to gain as a werewolf, and he howled with sheer delight at his success.

The two hounds near him bared their teeth at him and pounced. He fought them off with magnificent ease. This was the other advantage he’d sought, that of strength and speed and fangs, and now he gloried in it. Whether out of inability or out of benevolence, they did not try to hurt him severely. And so Bahorel likewise did his best to push past them towards Jehan without doing them serious harm.

Finally he saw a gap between them and leaped through it, racing to Jehan’s side. He howled, willing Jehan to recognize him.

“Your friend is here,” said Hecate, sounding as pleased as if Bahorel were a kindly neighbor who had stopped by for coffee.

Bahorel howled at her, _Give back my friend._

“Oh! Bahorel!” Jehan said, after a moment’s puzzlement, reaching out to stroke between Bahorel’s ears. Jehan, bless him, expressed no confusion at all about Bahorel’s new form, but simply smiled in welcome.

“I don’t keep him here against his will,” Hecate said, sounding puzzled, and somewhat offended.

“Not in the least,” Jehan said, warmly. “The lady has been most gracious, and has said very kind things about my poems…How did you know to find me? I’ve only been out here, oh, two hours.”

Bahorel tried to convey _no, you idiot, you’ve been here for nearly a week_ , as best as he could with a howl.

Hecate’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes. Mortal time. It’s much too fine-grained for me. You understand, it would be as if you tried to keep count of each hundredth of a second…but no, my dear Jehan Prouvaire, I had no intention of keeping you from your life, or your poems.” Jehan, of course, looked as though he by no means regretted being kept anywhere by such a goddess. “I would wish for you to stay a little longer,” Hecate continued, “but I fear I would lose too much time, and I cannot risk that. Not when you have more to do.”

Jehan nodded, looking sad, and rose from his chair, and bowed. “I thank you very much, for such a night of magic and wonder.”

“The pleasure was mine, Jehan Prouvaire,” came Hecate’s voice, as if blown on a wind from far away, as she and her hounds faded out of sight. “And a good night to you and your friend.”

Bahorel howled in response, but the end of his howl became a human sound, for he found himself rising onto two feet, his fur vanishing and his teeth shrinking.

“You never told me you were a werewolf!” Jehan sounded almost accusatory.

“I wasn’t, until tonight,” said Bahorel. “I had a feeling it might be helpful in retrieving you.”

Jehan paused. “You became a werewolf for my sake?”

“Of course,” Bahorel said, readily, “though it was no great sacrifice, I must admit.”

Smiling, Jehan slipped his arm through Bahorel’s, and they began their walk back to the city. Bahorel, out of the corner of his eye, noted that some of the moonlight seemed to coalesce around Jehan’s head in a cloud.

Some of Jehan’s friends doubted the precise details of his story, as he and Bahorel told it later. But all were happy to see him safe and sound. And if, every so often on moonlit nights thereafter, Jehan seemed to glow, and he stalked the streets in the company of what he insisted to passersby was a dog—why, it interfered with no one.


End file.
